


Always Ask for a Gift Receipt

by sayyikes



Category: Boruto: Naruto Next Generations, Naruto
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Fluffy-Cracky-No Take Backy, Holidays, Kankuro Punching Bag, M/M, but a few are homicidal, no one dies, sand siblings - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:28:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26437204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sayyikes/pseuds/sayyikes
Summary: The one where Kankuro gets wedged in a crawl space on Christmas Eve, and it all sort of spirals from there.---Shinki untwisted the gumdrop bag. “I actually dropped some of these on the floor.” She heard him confess to his cousin.Shikadai raised his stare to look his mother dead in the eye. Then took a gumdrop and plunked it down the tube anyway.Damn, Temari thought. I raised a good kid.(“Feeding him feels counterproductive,” Sakura halted Sasori’s hand as he made to drop a rock down the tube. “That one’s too nice,” She said. “Here, use this jagged one.”)
Relationships: Haruno Sakura & Sasori, Haruno Sakura/Sasori, Nara Shikamaru & Temari, Nara Shikamaru/Temari, Sai/Yamanaka Ino, Uchiha Sasuke & Uzumaki Naruto, Uchiha Sasuke/Uzumaki Naruto
Comments: 18
Kudos: 55





	1. Chapter 1

**_"You've reached the Konoha Non-Emergency Line. How can I be of assistance?"_ **

“Hi, uh—happy holidays,” Temari replied mechanically, her soul having left her body just a few minutes prior. She wasn’t in the right mindset to cogently speak to another human adult yet.

**_“Happy holidays, ma'am. Has something happened that you want to report, or need assistance with?”_ **

“Yeah, yes. Yeah. Well. My brother is a moron.”

**_“.......I don’t think we can assist you with that, ma'am.”_ **

“No, yeah, no, but my brother is a moron and he got himself _stuck_. In the crawlspace. Under my house.” 

Two snowpant-clad legs kicked futilely near the ground, upsetting her dogwood bush. They paused a moment, (gathering resolve?) before starting up again. _Lord._ Never had Kankuro looked more like an overturned beetle.

She rubbed her temples. “We can’t—( _“Aren’t really inclined to”_ someone behind her supplied)—seem to get him _unstuck_.” 

**_“How old is your brother, ma'am?”_ **

Temari heaved a long-suffering sigh. 

“He’s a grown-ass man.” She admitted.

**_“And he lodged himself beneath the house?”_ **

“Yes.”

**_“How long has he been under the house, ma'am?”_ **

“Maybe...an hour?—Kankuro how long have you been in there? (“I’m not sure!”) We’re not sure.”

**_“Is he under any distress? Is he being crushed?”_ **

“Not presently.” She said. A promise. 

(“Tell them there’s no rush.” Sasori toed the black mass; its squirming began anew.) 

Temari exhaled, cocking her head as she heard the front door open and then shut. 

Shinki and Shikadai crunched their way across the lawn, joining the blond-haired man who crouched by the hole in the foundation where their uncle floundered. The boys’ arms were full of cardboard wrapping-paper cores. And...gumdrops? It looked like? Left over from yesterday’s gingerbread debacle, _what a Macbeth-level tragedy that had been._

Deidara took stock of their offerings and nodded approvingly. He then poked the butt.

“Kank, move over a half an inch. We’re gonna MacGyver a pneumatic tube, yeah, and shoot you down some food.” He poked the butt again. 

Shinki untwisted the gumdrop bag. “I actually dropped some of these on the floor,” She heard him confess to his cousin. 

Shikadai raised his stare to look his mother dead in the eye. Then took a gumdrop and plunked it down the tube anyway.

 _Damn,_ Temari thought. _I raised a good kid._

**_“Okay, I understand. We will have someone over to help in a few minutes. What is your location, please?”_ **

“More green ones!” Kankuro solicited through wall and dirt and a mouthful of Dots. 

(“Feeding him feels counterproductive,” Sakura halted Sasori’s hand as he made to drop a rock down the tube. “That one’s too nice,” She said. “Here, use this jagged one.”)

Still, Temari weighed, not the worst Christmas Eve in recent memory.

* * *

(“They gave me the address and I said “NO WAY!” But then I said, “yes, let’s go!” And now I’m here, ‘ttebayo! Did you have lunch yet?”)

(“So I saw an extension cord.” “Alright.” “For say, a lamp.” “Sure. “I’m asking if you’re growing something down there.” “Can’t answer that.”)

(“I just really want black licorice.” “You _despise_ black licorice.” “ _I despise black licorice!_ ” “So why, ohmygod, Sakura, why are you crying about licorice?”)

(“I’m _imploring_ youto listen to the Mariah Carey/SouljaBoy remix.”)

* * *

The hullabaloo was cut off by a roar.

“Listen up!”

All eyes turned to the blonde woman at the kitchen table.

“Does **anyone** have **anything else** they need to add to the shopping list?” Temari raised her notepad like Moses descending Mount Sinai. “I’m willing to face that rabble once. One trip. If it’s not on this list before I walk out that door, you best hope you can live without it. No “ _oh Temari, but I need my medication_ ” no “oh, _Temari, I know I said we had apple cider but I looked closer and it turns out it’s actually vinegar_ ”—fuck you.”

“Fuck you.” Shikadai parroted to his cousin. 

“Fuck you.” Shinki concorded. 

(“It might actually be apple juice,” Gaara disclosed in a quiet voice. “I...I’m really bad at reading labels.”)

The pencil Temari was using snapped in half. Hydraulic press who? Now she had two smaller pencils—ideal for skewering little punkass kids who didn’t take her questions seriously. Also, keeping track of putt-putt golf scores.

 _Should we do that before break is over? Go putt-putt golfing? As a benign, family outing?_ No? No. _Miniature golf is for dweebs_ , she decided, eyeing Lee’s socks-and-crocs combo. He flashed her a toothy smile and a thumbs-up. Temari narrowed her eyes. She’d have a laser-tag family or no family at all... 

“HEY!” A stern voice drew everyone’s attention to the living room. It’s source—one spiky ponytail—peeked over the top of the recliner. 

“Keep it down.” The ponytail said. 

Shifted minutely. 

“Can’t hear my log.” 

Temari’s eyes rolled. They rolled so far back into her head that a Walmart lawyer started drafting up a copyright infringement suit. 

Of course no discipline would be dispensed from the jellified pineapple. Not when he’d found his zen in the form of a salvaged knit sweater and that damn Yule Log video. _Gonna have to add another place-setting and stream it on the laptop if we want him to eat with us tonight._ Or haul his whole La-Z-Boy to the dining room table. She needed to figure out a way to mobilize that thing. Maybe put a few skateboards under it, like a budget Professor X wheelchair...

“Please don’t turn into Mr. Wormwood from _Matilda_.” She plead-threatened. 

(Somewhere across the country, at the Akimichi holiday gathering, Chouji felt a shiver run down his spine. He turned away from the _Kitchen Nightmares_ rerun on TV. What was this he was feeling…? This unease...should he not have gotten Shikamaru TV trays for his Shristmas gift?). 

Temari glowered at her foul-mouthed son and nephew. 

“You two!” The house shook. “Watch the language!” (“Lead by example, mom.”) “Uh-uh. Nope. Go—grab an old gift card from the junk drawer—Sai move,—you’re gonna scrape the ice off my windshield—no, not _you_ Sai, them. I need to be able to see when old people ignore my turn signals and loiter in the only available parking spot!” 

Great balls of fire, she _loathed_ last-minute shopping. 

Shikadai gave a beleaguered sigh. He was going to have to put on so many layers to go outside again. He sighed once more at the effort exerted from the first sigh. _What a pain…_

Shinki would be warm as is though, he noted enviously. While his tight-faced partner in crime had all the stoicism of his uncle Gaara, it was Kankuro who had imparted Shinki’s swaddled raccoon fashion sense. The boy wore his puffy, two-sizes-too-large black coat at all times. It made him look like a Sith Lord Michelin Man, but it was good for hiding snacks when they went to the movies, so Shikadai had a passing appreciation for the monstrosity. 

And despite his placid exterior, Darth Michelin himself was thrilled to be berated by his aunt. Familial punishment cruxed on family, after all. He relished being included, however that inclusion manifested. 

Meanwhile, as he was elbowed aside, Sai took a moment to inspect the contents of the Nara junk drawer.

Old coins, loose screws, some of those fake lizards that get bigger when you put them in water. _Ah_ , he registered. _These are treasures they must hold very dear to have preserved in the heart of their home._ He thought to his own house. _Like Ino’s nail polish bottle drawer. They are empty and useless, but precious to her._ He wouldn’t dwell too deeply on that last thought, though.

(“What’s _Bennigan’s_?” Shikadai asked, examining the card he’d been handed. It was green and garish. Kankuro took a leveling breath. Turned away from his nephew. “Please, I’ve never hit a child.”)

“Phraseologically,” Sasori drawled from the breakfast bar. “Long pork could be classified as ham.”

The redhead didn’t take his eyes off his notebook as he continued: “Kill two birds with one stone—eliminate the old people and sidestep actually entering the store.”

(“Oh gosh, that reminds me,” Deidara said, rushing out of the room. Which was concerning, but not abnormal.)

“They would likely appreciate being useful. The elderly know they are such a drain on society.” 

A shadow fell over Sasori's book. Behind him, his grandmother wielded a cleaver, dripping maroon. With...beet juice. (“Chiyo-baa, you said they were purple potatoes!”)

“Yes, we old folk hate to burden this younger generation.” Chiyo dramatized. “It would be simpler if we collectively agreed to stay at home after 70, so we stop subjecting the youth to the wrinkled sight of us. It's old peoples’ fault that call centers and Bengay exist. We should just sit at home, eat porridge and wear bibs.”

“Grandma Chiyo, no,” Sakura said. The older woman gave an overacted collapse as she wrapped her in a tight hug. “You aren’t old and this isn’t Lobsterfest.”

More bad acting poured forth from the gray-haired matron. (She'd have a healthy shot at a recurring role on some daytime soap, Ino sized up. With the proper lighting, a dialect coach...Yeah, Chiyo could carry an Eartha Kitt vibe...): “Old people eat too early in the day to enjoy things like Lobsterfest! But thank you, Sa-ku-ra.” 

Chiyo patted her on the head and released her. The pink-haired woman smiled; then she grabbed two cookie sheets off the drying rack, walked up behind Sasori, and clanged them together like cymbals. 

He flinched. It might’ve taken one of those obscene-frame-rate finish-line cameras used at horse races, but it was perceptible. Chiyo rejoiced, while Temari made a face skyward. What even was her family.

“You are the only beneficiary in my will.” The octogenarian confided conspiratorially, to her granddaughter-in-law’s absolute delight. Not for the monetary sake of the statement, but—much like Shinki—the wholistic acceptance. Sakura adored Chiyo. Had ever since she’s seen the old woman stab Sasori with an EpiPen when no one was even going into anaphylactic shock. 

Chiyo was warm and knowledgeable and malicious and pruny in a way that reminded Sakura of an umeboshi. Sakura loved umeboshi. Did Temari have any umeboshi around? Oh. Any pickled herring? (“No, but there are sardine tins in the cupboard.” “Mm...” Gaara hedged. “There might...not be.” Shikadai turned to his cousin. “Schrodinger’s sardines.”)

Chiyo squinched her eyes and made a mental checkmark. Then owl-neck-swiveled to stare at Sasori. Motioned in a slicing gesture across her throat. 

Her grandson clenched his jaw. The old broad was getting nervier and nervier...

But he had planned for such an opportunity as this. Doors closing and doors opening and all that bunk. A power move is a power move, and he had a Draw+4 that had been burning a hole in his metaphorical card hand.

Plucking a folded paper from his journal, Sasori dead-eyed his grandmother. He let the paper—a bookmark?—fall to the floor. It landed with a flutter near the tile by her orthopedic-slipper-clad feet. 

_Gentle Leaves Nursing Home_ , the brochure read.

“Helping Seniors Live Comfortably.” Sasori quoted.

He steepled his hands. Fucking _Uno._

Now. Temari had a Fabergé egg in a storage box somewhere. This was true. But she was not Mikhail Gorbachev. She had no intention of ending her cousin and grandmother’s age-old Cold War, or—you know what else? Picking up that brochure from off the floor. Someone else was going to have to do that. Probably one of the puny kids, they were already so close to the ground. 

_Her_ objective was to get out of here, brave the hellhole of a grocery store, and then get back before Kankuro got stuck legs-up, scrabbling into his secret clubhouse again. The conversion rate for one emergency-services rescue was unfortunately not one lesson learned. 

Her brother was under the wayward misconception that he had enough dignity left to go full Wicked-Witch-of-the-East a second time, and while they now had some great photos to jazz up next year’s Christmas card, she’d rather not have to explain to curious neighbors why their street had been visited by sirens twice in one day. Whatever it was he was hiding, it was not worth Temari’s modicum of picket-fence respectability.

Time to reclaim the flippin’ room.

“Last chance, people!” 

She lifted her notepad. More menacingly than before. Gripped a new pencil, a stronger pencil, good for essay-heavy exams and enucleating Gotham mobsters.

 _Gods, there had better be shopping carts left._ She’d refused to lug Shikadai around in a baby carrier after he was born—she sure as hell wasn’t going to give 18 pounds of ingrate-ham the satisfaction. 

“Maybe, garbage bags,” Kankuro said, taking a pair of scissors to a wrapping paper tube. He reached out an expectant hand to Lee. (“Tape?” “Tape.”)

“What kind!?” A ferocious scrawl. Underlined. And underlined again. Because it was satisfying and wrathful. 

“Ah, black, with drawstrings? Big though, like for yard trash.”

Sasori paused his Mexican Standoff with Chiyo long enough to give Kankuro a look.

“You know you can order clothes online.”

The egg-timer went off. Scissors glided through wrapping paper. An icicle fell from the overhang outside and impaled Deidara’s dumbass snowman that _they had told him_ was too close to the house.

Then the kitchen erupted. Tenten put her hands together as though in prayer. Sai didn’t really get it, but smiled anyway, because it was apparently at someone else’s expense and that made him glad. 

Gaara turned to Naruto, still backlit by the flashing lights of the firetruck outside.

“Thank god you’re already here.”   
  


* * *

(“Gaara, d’you have a distilled water-ing can?”)

(“Imma turn this off artic.” “You gonna lose that hand.”) 

(“Sakura are you okay?” “Sorry, it’s just, this yam. This yam looks like a chubby mandrake.”) 

(“Do you think I can AmazonPrime a straitjacket?”)

* * *

_Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz._

Sasori raised an eyebrow at the flowery phone beside him. A few more jitters and it was set to plummet off the edge of the counter. 

“Can you answer that? My hands are covered in giblet.”

He gave his wife a look. (“I’m coated in salt and guts,” she despaired, prodding him with her shoulder. “Answer my phone!!!”) Fine, if only to cease the infernal buzzing. And to save it from an Olympic-qualifying dive to gold-medal shatterdom—Sakura’s glitter case was aesthetic but not functionally protective. (“Thank you,” she said, waving the tiny purple organ she’d plucked from the turkey carcass. “Love you with all my heaaart.”)

Tch. He was becoming too obliging and it set a dangerous precedent... “Set that aside for me.” He motioned to the heart. She raised an eyebrow but put it on some foil. Good, he thought. He could cross Kankuro off his gift-list.

Slow as molasses, Sasori looked at the caller ID on the screen. Picked up the phone. 

“What do _you_ want...” He answered. “ _...bargain-bin Itachi_?”

On the other end of the line, Sasuke pulled the handset away from him. Gave it a flinty, uncomprehending look. _Sakura’s voice had dropped two octaves._

(“Who is it?” Sakura called from the kitchen island/operating theater.)

“A mute,” her husband said dryly. Anything worth investigating in the Nara family mail tray? Del Taco coupons, Autozone coupons, oh, Shikadai’s report card. That was of passable interest... Overlain with teacher’s notes; more than one educator armchair-diagnosing narcolepsy. Yoshinoya coupons...

Sasuke broke free of his stunned silence.

_“—you put Naruto on th—”_

(“Is that Shisui? Did they get the box?”)

“I know a few Narutos.” Flicked the Keroppi charm dangling off the phone.

(“What time is it in Cabo? Oh, ask him if they can get those mezcal lollipops through customs.”)

_“—I swear to god Akasuna—”_

Sasori turned in his seat so that he was within reach of the kitchen appliances. 

“— _ask Sakur—_ ”

BZERGZERZER.

_“—cking—”_

—BZGER.

“...”

“...”

“— _if—_ ”

—BZG.

“...”

“Mm,” Sasori said, finger poised over the PULSE button. “Temari should check the warranty on this blender.” 

Sasuke bit his tongue. Put the handset down. Then executed a move experts refer to as a ‘Miss Piggy karate-chop’. In the grey squalor of the police station, the detective about to amble past Uchiha’s desk—sixth coffee of the day in hand—saw this exquisite move and opted to take the scenic route around the bullpen.

“Sasuke!” A very buoyant Sakura brought her head next to Sasori’s. The red-head frowned at the nearness of her viscera-coated hands to his shirtsleeve. “Put him on speaker, then.”

Once he had:

 _“I hate your husband.”_ Sasuke groused.

“Ha,” She laughed. “If I had a dime for every time I heard that.” (“Maybe you would have bought an OtterBox by now”. “Buy me one yourself.”)

“Sasuke, Sasuke, I’ve stolen _your_ husband.” Sakura boasted. “If you want him back, I demand a large strawberry boba.” 

_“Hn.”_ The sullen voice on the phone responded. He had to reassess the files now strewn across his desk. This was why color coding was so important... _“A large boba costs six dollars. Naruto is worth, at most, $3.99. No deal.”_

(“How many of your teachers were Pysch majors?” Sasori asked Shikadai when the boy slumphed past, red-nosed and mittened. “I’m eight years old.” Shikadai said, projecting a facade of youthful ignorance. His de-facto uncle remained expressionless and expectant. _Troublesome…_ The boy dropped the act. “I’ve heard two mention baby Albert. They’re mostly disillusioned history majors, to be honest.” Nearby, Deidara was uncharacteristically horrified. “You’re way too young to know about a Prince Albert, yeah!”) 

Sakura opened the utensil drawer with her elbow; bellowed.

“Oh-ho! Naruto! Welcome to your forever home!” (“‘ttebayo?”)

_“I’ll mail you his ear-drops and his cup ramen.”_

“Is that Sasuke?” The blond asked, entering from the living room. Sakura nodded and went back to her Dr. Moreau endeavor. Naruto leaned over Sasori to speak into the receiver. “Sasuke I left my phone in your patrol car!”

_“Yeah, and Itachi said they found your charger in their duffel.”_

“Nooo!”

(“Why am I still holding this?”)

“ _Did you sign out for the week?_ ”

“Yep, dropped off the truck, passed the baton to Izumo and literally drove right back to my last stop.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Someone in this house is stupid!” Ino shouted in explanation.

“You’ll have to be more specific,” Sai said helpfully.

Sasuke sighed. 

_“Is Kankuro alright?”_

Theirs was a collective shrug.

“Ask about my turducken!” Sakura prompted.

“ _...how is your turducken working out?_ ”

“Not great!”

“ _Better or worse than a day in the OR?_ ”

“Well,” She considered, scoring the tiny chicken wing. “It hasn’t asked me for dilaudid, so. Better? By a hair. Have they said anything about catering dinner for you guys?”

“Oh, d’you want me to drop off a plate later?” It was Naruto’s turn to fiddle with the Keroppi charm.

“Temari’s getting a boatload of back-up ham.” Sakura reassured her friend on the phone. “Or there are veggie burgers from last week, if you’re not hung-up on occasion-specificity.”

He made a noncommittal noise.

“ _There was mention of dinner at some point. But even if that falls through, I’d rather just chew some gum and be hungry than have you risk black ice to bring me a plate of back-up ham._ ”

(“There’s no guarantee they even still have ham in stock by now. Might end— _ohmygod, again?!_ ” Tenten gave Inojin the stink-eye as she forked over $200 Monopoly dollars. “—might end up with something—you’re telling me you own all these properties?—something weird that nobody else wanted. Like tofurkey. Or guineafowl.” It was Inojin’s turn to look aghast. “People eat Hamtaro?!”)

 _“If everything works out, I should be able to head over this time tomorrow._ ” Sasuke cracked his knuckles. _“I’ve gotta go now. Naruto, if you need to charge yo—no, nevermind, I have your phone. Okay, I guess use Sakura’s if you need to get a hold of me.”_

“Will do! Love you! Stay safe!” Naruto said loudly, an inch away from the phone. “We’ll Facetime you when we sit down for dinner!”

“ _Hn,”_ His husband said. _“Love you, too._ ”

“Awwwwwww!!!” Ino and Tenten chorused.

Sasuke hung up with a huff.

A moment passed and Sakura took a step back from her in-progress, poultry Frankenstein. She had severely overestimated the size of this duck…

 _How to go about salvaging it?_ She pondered. 

“Could someone please google how they build those tiny ships in bottles?”

* * *

(“Are you sure this is a ham? It looks like it could fight Mothra.”)

(“Y’all be sinnin’ 24/7.”)

(“Can I have some of that orange juice before you transform it into sangria?” “Would you rather have ginger ale?” “There’s ginger-ale?!”)

(“1.4 million, but it can go up to 2. At least that’s what I read.”)

* * *

“The reception is going to be catered, but nothing crazy. Just passed drinks and _hors d'oeuvres_. The really good stuff will be the banquet spread.” A pause to reflect. “And the midnight cookie bar.”

“Whore durvs?” Naruto scrunched his face.

“ _Hors d'oeuvres_.” Ino corrected. “You know, miniature stuff, finger foods.”

(“My favorite kind.” Deidara said from the couch. “You eat literal garbage.” Temari increduled.) 

“Ah,” Naruto nodded. “Like, uh, Bagel Bites!”

“Bagel B— _no!_ Tasteful stuff! Tiny stuff!” (“Costco sample-sized.” Kankuro provided for reference. Did people not realize that he was a man of taste? Or that, if you circle around twenty minutes later, they’ll give you a second sample cup? And if they recognize you, “I wanted another for my grandma to try!” Even when you’re at the store alone, buying Doritos in bulk. Honestly, he has so much to offer this world.) 

Ino scraped off sticky backing with a manicured nail. Smacked Shikamaru with another bow. He blew a puff of air at the plastic monstrosity most obscuring his mouth, but otherwise did nothing. He had a nice virtual yule log to watch on the TV. It played on loop. Time was-is-will be a construct. This was just the holiday-episode of his everyday life. 

“Next you’ll say everyone should just get a can of Chef Boyarde for dinner. _‘Go on everybody, heat up your cans. Use the centerpiece candles!_ ’ Uh-uh, not at one of my weddings. Crostini? Mayhaps. Fancy pickles? I’ll turn a blind eye. Bagel Bites?! Ugh.”

A muffled voice came from the Out-of-Boundaries bedroom/office.

“What do you mean candles? Wasn’t it tealights?”

“They were,” Ino responded triumphantly. “But I convinced the DJ to lower his prices, so we were able to reclaim that bit of the budget.” Could anyone be more brilliant than her? RuPaul, _maybe_.

Sakura finally emerged from the Out-of-Boundaries bedroom/office, a Chichen Itza of Christmas presents stacked tidily in her arms.

“Oh good, they won’t have to heat their cans Easy-Bake-Oven-style.”

(“Is there going to be ravioli at dinner tonight?” Naruto asked Temari, stomach grumbling. Her eyes narrowed. He realized belatedly that she had a pair of kitchen shears in hand. She replied verbally. “No.”)

By now Shikamaru looked more like a Bumble Ball than a person, still catatonic in his recliner. _I have no more surface area to work with_ , Ino lamented. _And yet there are so many more bows in this bag..._ She turned Terminator-like to zero-in on her next victim. Appraised the room, locked onto a target. 

Inojin didn’t have time to move before a green bow slapped onto his forehead. (“A unicorn!” Lee beamed, before grabbing two bows of his own and putting them on either side of his bowl cut. “Tenten!” He laughed. Naruto grabbed two of the largest bows in the bag and put them on his chest. “Tsundae-baa!” Was promptly kicked by Sakura.) 

The littlest Yamanaka grumbled and tried to peel off the plastic. _How unaesthetic..._ But Ino batted away the interfering hand. She had a gold counterpart already coming to join it smack-dab on his nose. 

“I strung that DJ out to dry. Lol.” Ino cackled. And she didn’t feel guilty, neither. Dosu’s proposed playlist had frontloaded with that Smash Mouth song from _Shrek_. Why? For what reason? 

“Onions aren’t romantic.” She proclaimed.

“I mean,” Sakura arranged a few gifts under the tree. There was a moment’s pause and Sasori seemed to materialize in the living room. “Maybe, caramelized onions?”

Sasori dematerialized.

“Noodles are the most romantic food,” Naruto grinned. “Then you can smooch like those dogs with the spaghetti.” 

“Does Kakashi—” Ino began.

“In February, yeah. For real, we’ve all written off the station’s TV by now.”

“I know what that’s like,” Temari said, Picassoing the bread for stuffing. Shikamaru acknowledged the jab with a contented grimace. His yule log flickered warmly on the television over the mantle. A stray ember swept across the screen. A crackle. An ember. A crackle. 

“Are you familiar with the concept of Shangri-La.” He asked the universe at large. 

“No, I have never heard of that app.” Naruto said.

“This looks like Hulu to meee.” Tenten passed Lee a stapler. 

“Oh! Yeah, yeah!” The blond brightened. “Kakashi’s had “ _Puppies Crash Christmas_ ” playing at the station since November. ‘Ruka tried to change it and ‘kashi ended up hiding the remote.” 

Shikamaru made a pained face. So did Naruto, but it was because the orange things on the reindeer platter turned out to be baby carrots and not cheese puffs like he’d thought. Sneaky Naras, trying to sneak him a nutrition, sneaky sneaky. 

“Don’t get any ideas, Tema.” Shikamaru warned.

“I could put that remote on the other end of the couch and it would be hurdle enough,” His wife replied. 

Naruto wiggled in his sweatshirt until it was on backwards, then grabbed the consolatory pretzel bag from the table and poured them into his hood like a bowl.

Then he gasped LOUDLY.

“Jiminy Cricket,” Lee reacted, his stapler gone flying in surprise. At the same time, an errant pretzel hit Gaara in the face, to which he responded with an absolutely rip-roaring “...okay.” _It could have been worse, it could have been the stapler._ He reasoned.

Other people were less G-rated in their exclamations. Naruto ignored them all.

“My bag!” He swung over the couch and raced down the hall.

(Shinki and Shikadai gave an exaggerated cry. “His bag!” “His bag!” Tenten yanked them both by the ear. “Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, aren’t ya’, little trolls?”) 

When Naruto re-emerged, it was with his rucksack in tow. He dumped the methodically packed contents—Sasuke had packed this—in a pile on the floor, rifling around for the thick sheaf of parcel-sized gifts at the bottom. He handed each meticulously wrapped gift—Sasuke had also wrapped these—to the adults in the room. 

Shikamaru’s gift he balanced on the reclined man’s face. (“No!” Ino eeked. “My bows!”)

By the tree, Sakura inspected her present curiously. The rectangular shape, the quarter-inch thickness...Realization dawned on her.

“Is this what I think it is?” She breathed.

The rest of the room looked at Naruto. Had his grin been road-safe, you would have seen it propelling down the highway with **_Caution: Wide Load_ ** banners. 

“Is this,” Sakura asked again. “ _What I think it is?_ ”

“Ohmygod,” Ino put a hand to her heart as she too reached an epiphany. “You actually did it? You got everyone -- you got Genma?!”

“For charity,” Naruto assured.

“Even Yamato?” Tenten pointed her envelope at the blond aggressively. “Hells bells, did you guys make Yamato do it?!”

Kankuro paused in his trash crafting.

“What are y’all talking about?” He asked, eyeing the gift by his elbow. “What are these? What’s the deal?” To his brother-in-law: “What’s going on?”

Shikamaru shut his eyes and shook his head. The oldest Sabaku brother snorted. He started to open his gift, but Naruto stopped him with a well-aimed pecan to the head.

“You can’t open them yet, you have to wait!” He insisted. “Everyone’s gotta open them at the same time.”

Sakura gave her friend a sly smile.

“October?” She guessed.

His grin was a meter wide.

The mystery and buildup that accompanied Naruto’s gifts was only broken by the sound of ripping paper. Not wrapping paper, just regular.

From his seat at the breakfast bar, Sasori tore out a page of his notebook. The rest of the household watched as he approached the fridge, stole the magnet holding up Chiyo’s _Suna-fish Casserole_ recipe, and posted his sheet of paper like it was an exam scoresheet.

“You finished what you were working on?” Sakura rested her chin on his shoulder and studied the diagram.

“Mm,” He affirmed, reflecting on his handiwork. “Tonight’s seating arrangements.”

He pointed.

“This side of the table is for blonde acquaintances. Their seating-proximity to me correlates to projected decibel level.”

He turned to Kankuro.

“We have an uneven number, so I’ve put you on the floor under the table. You can beg for scraps if you like. This morning was good practice.” 

The redhead couldn’t conceal the glint in his eye. “And if Temari ever gets a dog...well. We’ll reassess what to do with you then.”

This dig _might_ have bothered Kankuro if he had less than an elephant’s worth of chutzpah. If he were a sensitive guy. If he wasn’t as certifiable as the rest of his family, and if he hadn’t grown up with the cloak-and-dagger threat of psychological napalm every time he shimmied out of his room to grab a Capri-Sun. But he did, he was, and he had. And as a general coping mechanism—instilled circa Gaara’s middle school years—(he waved some burning sage around in his mind), Kankuro was self-conditioned to see the bright side of things. A, _how you say_ , good egg.

So, did this seating arrangement rankle him? Hell no. Think of all that freaking elbow room! He had to smother a smirk. Sasori had unintentionally handed him the winning scratcher to tonight’s family-holiday-dinner lottery. That overconfident prick.

_Take. The shade. And throw it. Away._

“Who knows how many people will be joining us next year,” Chiyo paraded past. “A dog wouldn’t be the most surprising thing.”

Sasori met his grandmother’s knowing gaze. Flipped the switch for the garbage disposal.

“I mean, I’d be _pretty fucking surprised_ if this family got a dog.” Temari mumbled. She joined the crowd forming near the fridge and peered at the diagram.

“Hold up—” She turned on Sasori. “Why are you at the head of the table?! This is not your house!”

(“Woohoo! Gaara and I get to sit next to each other!” Lee threw a fist in the air. “Will you eat my vegetables?” Inojin asked Tenten when his mom’s back was turned. “Yeah, I’ll eat your vegetables.”)

* * *

(“I’ll be real with you. I’ve only done like, half my Christmas shopping.” “Today is Christmas Eve.” “It is.” “It’s _three in the afternoon_ on Christmas Eve.” “Three fifteen.” “...mercy…”)

(“Lee, you don’t need a burner for your green bean casserole, right?”)

(“I’m sending Asuma a photo—Shinki, Sai—you’re not in the frame. Scoot in.”)

(“We’ve gone through so much Fanta. We’re putting that bodega owner’s kids through bodega owner kid college.”)

* * *

Sasori had a conundrum. This was a problem, because Sasori didn’t entertain conundrums.

And this particular conundrum was exacerbated by the fact that it dealt with his blond, aronistic, _Christmas-Is-a-Wash-I’m-Just-in-It-for-New-Years_ shadow. Some would use the term ‘friend’. Sasori would not. Sasori didn’t entertain the notion of friends any more than he did conundrums. They were things that plagued less solipsistic people, and if they could be stamped out, well...If something can be done in less than a minute, it should have been done five minutes ago. 

His _issue_ stemmed from the fact that societal expectations dictated he give Deidara a gift. And his own sharp toothed ego demanded that gift bite back. But the bleeding perfectionist in him was not satisfied with any of the gnarly ideas he had conjured up these past 24 days, and the countdown clock had now ticked down so precariously low, it might warrant a kamikaze maneuver.

Last year he had gotten the man a sleeve of Donettes from the gas station down the block. Even that had felt too generous, so he’d stepped on the package a few times to give it a little wear. And then presented the sheath of crushed donuts in the same flimsy _ThankYouThankYouThankYou_ plastic bag in which he’d received them. 

Unfortunately, Deidara had enjoyed them. 

A thoughtless gift apparently didn’t work. What he needed this year was a truly thoughtful gift, a gift that said, "I saw this piece of rubbish and recognized that it was almost as egregious as you."

Roseart crayons? Some leaking soy sauce packets? A _Titanic_ VHS box set? 

Sasori resented the mental gymnastics he was doing on the part of his blond parasite. This faculative altruism was the mark of lesser mammalian species—an unnecessary energy expenditure. _This is the Descent of Man,_ he ruminated. _In every sense._

“We can say my gift is from both of us,” Sakura offered, waving the iridescent object like it was a game-show prize. 

He frowned. He loathed the idea of failing by proxy even more than a forward defeat. 

“...yours is sentimental. I’m not getting caught up in that.”

“Okaaay,” She sang doubtfully, moonwalking (or perhaps Dance-like-an-Egyptian-ing?) away. “ _Voulez-vous, Take it now or leave it!_ ”

 _Sunk-cost fallacy,_ he reminded himself objectively. _I need to cut my losses before I devote any more time to selecting the most masterfully condescending, ancestor-repudiating, peroxide-ammoniating, military-grade disparagement..._ damn it all. His spite refused to let him settle. 

“Leaving it, dancing queen." 

Sakura grinned, secured the signed, _Best of ABBA_ vinyl in what remained of last year’s gift wrap and tsked. 

“Okay, but I’ll keep the label blank just in case,” She said. “And by-the-by, you’re mixing albums.” 

“Hmmm…” Sasori stood, an idea curling in his mind. “I’m going to the gas station.”

He didn’t ask the attendant before he dumped a pallet’s worth of 5-Hour Energy shots into the Slurpee machine. He watched the rotor blades as the unholy concoction swirled.

The dispenser nozzle was mildewy, Sasori noticed. Perfection. 

He’d fill a chaser with some dregs from the overflow tray and call it a day.  
  


* * *

(“We’re gonna play cornhole in the basement. We’ll try not to break anything this time, but. You know. No promises.”)

(“We are officially out of tape. _Use_ _gift bags, all ye’ who enter here._ ”)

(“I’m fine with paper plates, really, it’s just, when the hell else will we use this china?”)

(“Hey, Kiba sent a photo in the group chat—ah! Akamaru’s leading the sleigh!”)

* * *

  
  
Chiyo prided herself on being spry.

For someone her age, her mobility and cognizance was in the bloody _99th percentile_. Like, Colin Firth _Kingsman_ level. And her ability to still do the self-destructive things that she had been doing her entire life—with little to none of the ill-effects that crippled other people her age—had resulted in her categorizing herself as something “other.” She was not an old person, not really. And thus she did not relate to old people or their struggles or nonparticipation. 

So it always came as a surprise to Chiyo when she found herself doing old-folk things. Like enjoying condensed soup. And having people carry her stuff for her ( _making_ people carry her stuff was still totally fine—that didn’t qualify, that was timeless social engineering, all well and good.) 

But passively observing the goings-on around her? _Oof._ Peak old person move.

It was in one such moment of quiet observation that Chiyo recognized, on this day, in this home, how a far-off dream had somehow come true around her.

The realization was prompted by an innocuous interaction between Temari and miniature Shikamaru. Innocuous, but it sent her hurtling back through time.

_(“Which of these cookies do you want to save for the Santa plate?” The blonde woman asked._

_“I thought Santa was told to watch his blood sugar.”_

_“Santa’ll be alright for one night.”_

_“Does Santa’s endocrinologist agree?”)_

Kami. _Kami._ Chiyo felt the wind get knocked out of her. Those garden variety Santa stories hadn’t survived Sasori’s skepticism either. Even at 6 years old, the boy was primed for disbelief and knee-jerk enmity. And now, twenty-odd years later, the tradition of discrediting tradition persisted.

“Ebizo.” She said. Half-asleep in the recliner next to big Shikamaru, her brother met her gaze, read her mind. He too had been transported (though, admittedly, more in a Willy Wonka Tunnel-of-Terror boat scene way) to a time long ago, in a galaxy three boroughs away. 

Her grandson had waited in the shadows as Ebizo did his part in contributing to the jolly elf-man myth. Her brother had deposited the artfully wrapped present; taken a healthy bite out of a sugar cookie on the mantle. And then he went to take a swig of milk. 

Ebizo didn’t particularly like milk. He preferred orange juice. All the baseline fruity tones, really. Guava. Papaya. You know, beverages that could pair with the ting-tang of steel drums.

Yeah, anything compatible with a small paper umbrella was a step above in Ebizo’s book. He actually had an extensive tiki mug collection, and had toyed with the idea of starting a tiki bar review channel on that YouTube thing.

(“Overall ambiance a bit disjointed, but colorful-changing swizzle sticks make up for it. I rate _Gai’s Tiki Heaven & Discotheque _ 3.5 out of 5 hibiscus flowers!”) 

No doubt about it—Ebizo was a juice guy. An alcohol guy. A juicy alcohol—no, an alcoholic juice guy. 

Not a milk man. 

But sometimes, your sister has a kid, and sometimes, your sister’s kid has another, smaller kid, and before you know it, you’ve been Matryoshka-dolled into being a grandfather-figure to a bitter melon posing as a child.

(“Why leave an offering?” The bitter melon asks. “Is this elf pagan?”

“No,” Chiyo says, “No—put the neighbor’s cat back, we’re not sacrificing anything—this isn’t a ritual! Or well, it is, but not like that.” 

“This is a vengeful elf if it wants retribution.”

“Fine, fine, fine, it’s the vague afterimage of a ritual. But it’s not,” His sister refuses to 100% concede. “This is just how it’s done, stupid boy. Ungrateful unimaginative boy, can’t appreciate theatrics or mysticism boy, eats Raisin Bran for breakfast instead of Froot Loops boy. This is Christmas magic, elf magic. That stuff. Stop thinking about it so hard. Decorate your gingerbread men. Why are you breaking off all their arms and legs?”)

Anyways.

Ebizo, dutiful, tag-along, good-natured Ebizo, went to take a swig of milk.

Only to discover it had been replaced with Elmer’s glue.

The inevitable jump from Mogwai-to-Gremlin had happened so early with Sasori, they’d gotten whiplash. His patent denial of all those things children were supposed to adore had maddened Chiyo. She took it as a personal affront to her pseudo-parenting. But she couldn’t be wrong, because she refused to be wrong, and if she _was_ wrong about this one thing, then it opened up a whole canned food aisle worth of worms, and she refused to acknowledge that.

A generation later, the actors in the scene had changed. That was Temari, not herself. And now Chiyo knew, because she was observing instead of living it, that such a scene and such a child didn’t have to be typical to be good.

Their house was bursting with food and friends. Temari was fussing over Shikadai’s lack of socks. Kankuro had slipped back down to the crawlspace when no one was looking, to tend to the Trinidad Scorpion pepper plant he was growing as Gaara’s Christmas gift. Gaara himself was downstairs with Shinki, reasonably close to beating the Yamanakas at cornhole. (Who was she kidding, no they were not. (“Just like we practiced Inojin!”).)

And Sasori had his wife’s wedding ring stowed away securely in his back pocket. Safe-guarding it while she worked whatever miracle she was working on tonight’s alternative main course ("What are you doing, Sa-ku-ra?" “My best, Chiyo-baa!”). Of course, the pink haired woman herself—well, this old dame could take an educated guess. 

* * *

(“SO! The good news is, this ham is delicious. And the other good news is, we have enough shredded turkey and chicken and whatever, for like, a month’s worth of tacos.”)

(“Sasuke, look up, look left. My left. Left. Up. Hold! I’m trying to get a good photo so we can put you on the yule log monitor.”)

“What are the sleeping arrangements tonight? I’d like to formally request at least two pillows.”)

(“Sakura and I are hosting next year. You’re all invited, but no one is really welcome.”)

* * *

“Hey. Hey y’all.”

“...”

“ Kankuro’s not under the table.”

“...”

“...”

“...”

“...Maybe we can ask if they’ll send Kakashi this time!”  
  


* * *

  
**_“_ ** **_You’ve reached the Konoha Non-Emergency Line. How can I be of assistance?"_**

“Hi, uh—happy holidays.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [original comic](https://sayyikes.tumblr.com/post/626730214588923904/this-is-from-both-of-us-i-like-to-imagine) that got out of hand. 
> 
> (I feel it's important to share—despite it having no bearing at all on the story proper—that Pakkun is definitely the mayor. He's still a dog, they're just one of those cute AF towns.) 
> 
> Find me on tumblr @sayyikes. General art and buffoonery of the SasoSaku variety.


	2. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An epilogue of sorts.

Naruto craned into the hallway as far as the charging cord would let him.

“Sasuke’s on his way!” He announced happily. “You guys want to mess with him?” 

“Does a bear shit in the woods?” Ino halved a cinnamon roll. “Give us the rundown.”

* * *

**_In East Timor, Asian Palm civets act as nature’s built-in processing plant. Partially digesting the coffee cherries and fermenting them in their intestines._ **

Sasuke’s blinker clicked back and forth as he waited for a green arrow. _Click Click. Click Click._ He turned up the volume to better hear the staticy NPR report as it crackled over the radio. Wondered at having to wait at a light when he was _literally_ the only car on the road...

 **_This is the first and most crucial step to getting a steaming cup of delicious_ ** **kopi luwak** **_into your morning joe._ **

A stop sign, a right turn, another right turn, and then straight down to the cul-de-sac where the Nara/Sabaku brood had taken up residence.

 **_That’s right, this coffee is sourced from bat poop! Farmers_ ** — ****

It looked like they’d gone wild with the snowmen yesterday. A colorful brigade of brightly bedecked shapes stood sentinel in front of the house.

_Maybe they were going for a caroling troupe, or the Fellowship of the Ring, or_ _—_

He gripped the steering wheel tight. 

_They wouldn’t._

“HIIIIII SASUKEEEE!” A dozen voices harmonized.

Naruto was balanced on a green snowman’s shoulders, and had his arms thrown wide _—_ forefront of their welcoming committee. The blond looked like he was trying to take flight. (“Swaying a bit there, Lee,” Tenten spotter-ed. “Careful not to lock your knees.” “Yosh!”) 

The rest of the glee club waved flamboyantly beside him, windmilling scarves. An uncoordinated out-of-sync ribbon-dance. (With one exception. It appeared Kakashi was visiting.) 

Ino raised Inojin in a Rafiki-lofting-Simba move. Figure-eighted him ‘til he looked woozy and her arms hurt, then passed him to Sai. (Gaara gave Shinki a questioning glance, relieved when his son shook his head, a silent, _no father, I do not want us to try that, too_.) Thank goodness. Gaara had toothpick arms.

It was all quite fun. 

* * *

  
“Ah _—_! He’s driving away!”


End file.
